


Drunken Letter Declaration

by OpalJade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post S4, Sherlock is missing, They'll figure it out, fantasies, john is drunk, they belong together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-10-11 13:11:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10465812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalJade/pseuds/OpalJade
Summary: John writes Sherlock a letter while intoxicated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Come at Once 24 hour challenge. Needless to say, this is unbeta'd and not britpicked. In fact, I barely had time to re-read it. ;D If it doesn't make sense, blame John. He's drunk.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_Sherlock,_

_~~Yes, this is obviously a~~ _

_Yes. I’m writing you a ~~handwritten~~ letter. Don’t get all “obviously” about it, ok?_

_This is my ~~second~~ ~~third~~ fifth draft. ~~They didn’t all begin~~_

_I’m drunk (obviously). ~~I’ve had too much~~. Lets’ see, I’ve had ~~three~~ ~~four~~ five draughts (haha! See my clever joke? Or are you the only funny one ~~in this relationship?~~ )_

_Don’t worry, I won’t be sending this letter. You won’t be reading this. Too messy for you, ~~princess~~ sorry, drama ~~queen~~ king. _

_Seriously, Sherlock why did you take off like that??? I thought we were beyond all that crap. It’s ok. ~~No it’s not.~~ I’m just venting. _

_You got scared and left—no big deal._

_Except it IS a fucking big deal. Because you could’ve talked instead of fleeing. It’s ok. I understand. ~~But it’s~~ _

_Okay, here’s the truth. ~~I’m pissed and~~ I’m pissed-off._

_Do you even know why I’m so fucking upset, you ~~beautiful~~ dickhead? (Apart from the fact that you left me by myself at your parents home in the middle of fucking nowhere! ~~I didn’t even know the address so I could~~_

_~~Let me speel out. Fuck~~ _

_Let me spell it out for you, ~~genius~~ genius. I’m upset because we’re at the part ~~of the story~~ where we’ve overcomed all the bloody obstacles. We’ve figured out our shit ~~and we’re more than likely in fucking love with each other. In love.~~ I think we know where we both stand. What was it you were saying? Ammo, ~~a mast~~ , amen. Whatever. _

_But you’re acting like there’s still a problem. Do you have ANY idea how bloody frustrating this is? (Just re-filled my glass, in case you’re interested. You know you’ve been missing for 12 hours now, eh? Prick.)_

_Yes. All it took was five minutes to destroy us, but we survived. It’s over now. (Well, not quite over… we both need a ~~year~~ decade of therapy). Which is  why I stopped you by the way. I thought it would be a good idea to talk, you know? ~~Do you seriously think I wanted to stop? You’ve mistaken my intentions.~~  
I believe you misunderstood ~~you shithead~~ what I was trying to do. _

_Why the hell did you take off you? I’m so fucking mad right now. No one knows where you are. I checked your boltholes. Fuck. ~~I could strangle you~~_

_Sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t really want to strangle you. ~~I want to make love to~~_

_This is all a BIG misunderstanding._

_Christ! I could write a fucking dissertation on misunderstandings between us._

_One more drink and I’ll tell you what I_

_Nevr mind. I’m not_

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_Dear Sherlock,_

_It’s me again. I started writing you a bunch of letters a few hours ago when I was quite drunk. I was pretty angry. See the crumbled up pages in the bin if you don’t believe me._

_I’m actually still intoxicated ~~but not mad~~. Okay, I’m still a bit mad because you’re not responding to my texts. You could at least let me know you’re okay._

_The reason I’m writing you is because I don’t know what else to do. I’m scared that you’ve gone and done something stupid. I wish you would answer your fucking phone so I could give you a piece of my mind…_

_But really what I need is peace of mind. I need to know you’re okay. I need to know **we’re** okay. _

_And is writing you a letter like a needy lovesick teenager helping me get some peace? I don’t know. I’m going crazy here._

_It’s now 3 hours later- I went to the pub. I was hoping I’d find you home when I got back._

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_I’m not really sure what happened but I realize it was probably partly my fault. ~~I should’ve known this was~~ _

_I should start by saying that I’ve been drinking a bit. Please ignore my texts.  
(Actually, don’t ignore them. Please reply. I meant ignore my tone.)_

_~~Sherlock, my love~~ _

_Sherlock, you know I love you. You know it. You are the most perceptive man alive. Newtonian intelligence. Had you been born in that era, gravity would be measured in Holmes._

_For the record, this is what happened yesterday afternoon; We were sitting on your childhood bed at your parent’s place and you were showing me your plant taxonomy press and your watercolor paintings of poisonous plants._

_And yes, I was blown away all over again. I didn’t even know you could draw so well! That’s what you do to me—all the time—blow me away! You amaze me. You make me feel alive. You give me a purpose. You make me feel grounded. So much so that my own private unit of gravity is Holmes (ha. I’m so funny)._

_You claimed that I pulled away from you faster than an ionic transfer of electrons ~~or something stupid like that~~ (sorry, but that was an absurd metaphor, Sherlock). I told you were wrong, that I was attracted to you, but you wouldn’t let me finish. You said I was confusing lust for adrenaline and that I couldn’t possibly be attracted to you. It’s not just the ~~fucking~~ danger thing, ok? It’s everything. It’s YOU. And that includes what’s beneath your ~~fucking~~ clothes. ~~You’ve been driving me crazy for seven years, did you know that?~~_

_I’m so sorry about what happened in uni with ~~that jerk~~ that Trevor guy. _

_**He** said he’d have anyone but you. NOT ME. It wasn’t me who said that, Sherlock. _

_**I’ll** have no one but you. NO ONE BUT YOU._

_Listen, Sherlock, it was nice…more than nice—when you touched me. I keep replaying it in my mind and I’m sure if I have one more drink, I’ll tear up just thinking about it._

_It happened so suddenly. First you took my hand and kissed each finger and then my palm. You unbuttoned your shirt and placed my palm over your heart. You pushed me down on your tiny childhood bed and buried your entire face under my jumper… You listened to my heart and then I felt the tip of your tongue on my nipple. You kissed me all over my chest and I couldn’t even see you. Hell, it was the most goddamn sweetest thing I’ve ever experienced. But here’s the thing, it was also the most goddamn erotic thing too. See, it’s always like that with you isn’t it? Weird combinations. Sweet and erotic._

_Bossy and vulnerable is another odd combination that comes to mind. You remember when you were teaching me how to waltz? There was a bunch of wedding planning stuff on the table and you grabbed a sample flower from Mary’s headpiece and tucked it behind my ear. This was to indicate ~~I was the girl and~~ I was supposed to let you lead me. Then you’d place the flower behind your ear when you thought I was ready to take the lead. You were so bossy, yet you would look at me so wistfully. If we’d both done what we wanted to do; if we’d kissed then, what do you think would’ve happened? _

_And ~~our~~ my stag-do. Yeah-I was pretty drunk then too. I’d have done it that night, Sherlock. I’d have made love to you. I should have. Why did we even answer the bloody door? I guess at the time I was relieved… I thought I’d been saved from making a mistake. Now in hindsight I realize it was bloody Lestrade who had sent that nurse to stop things before anything happened. He was so mad at me later when he got us out of jail. I should’ve known how much he was in love with you too._

_Anyway, I’m rambling. The reason I asked you to stop when you slid your hand underneath my pants was because I thought we should talk._

_I’m not repelled by your touch you great big idiot. I crave it. I fantasize about it._

_I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve touched you in my mind a thousand times. We’ve had sex. All in my head. You’re my biggest fantasy._

_And this isn’t new. Remember when you were solving the Solitary Cyclist case (the one you wouldn’t let me publish on my blog). I was waiting for you in 221B (because you asked me to come over, remember? It was inconvenient, I was supposed to be picking a pram before the store closed—but here I was sitting in my chair waiting for you instead. ~~Yeah. That says a lot in hindsight.~~ )_

_And then you came in, a tornado of words and ideas (John, we will have to go back tonight and climb the spruce tree again!) and for a second I literally felt all my feel good chemicals simultaneously overflow my blood stream. I was amused, awed, ready for danger… all my senses awake._

_And then you spiralled in front of me with a pair of scissors, you dropped to my feet and ~~asked me~~ ordered me to remove the sap that had glued your hair together at the base of your neck. You rested your elbows on my thighs and looked at me like a sweet little angel, your eyelashes framing the masterpiece your fucking eyes are._

_What colour are your eyes anyway? I love them._

_Funny story. I once picked up a paint chip in a store because it reminded me of your eyes. I wanted to see what colour they called it. You know what it was? Pistachio Sorbet—I kid you not. ~~As you know, Pistachio is my favourite nut (you're my favourite nut).~~ ~~I still have that chip in my bedside table I think.~~ _

_Anyway, I stared at your lips. I think I was so obvious. Surely you knew what I was thinking? There you were, nestled between my legs, humming with nervous energy, your lips slightly parted… well—I stopped breathing when you bent your head low to present me the nape of your neck. My body ~~thought~~ hoped you were going to do something else, you know? ( ~~A blow job, Sherlock… just in case you didn’t know.~~ )_

_Oh, let me tell you I’ve replayed that one in my mind a few times. It’s a Recycled Fantasy. ~~Good for me, I recycle… I’m doing my part to help the environment~~  
It’s a great fantasy. You have no fucking idea how often I’ve jerked off to that one. _

_One more drink and I’ll share the details if you want._

_Ok, ~~had another drink~~ I want to tell you and I think you need to hear this because ~~this is quite the opposite of pulling away like an electron transfer—am I making sense?~~ I ~~rarely~~ really want to tell you. _

_It’s so incredibly sexy and vivid in my mind. ~~It’s beautiful because I fucking love you and~~ It might not come out as hot and powerful when I write it down, ~~but it’s beautiful because it’s you and me finally intimate~~ _

_Here it goes… So, yeah, as I said, in my mind you’re all talkative and excited about the case. You drop to your knees in front of me, except this time it’s not to have stuff removed from your hair. You unzip my jeans and ask “May I?” very formally. Don’t ask me why. ~~Maybe you being polite is another fantasy of mine. Haha.~~_

_Your mouth wraps slick around my cock and your lips find the perfect suction (Because you deduced it. Yes, I even fantasize about the “deduction thing”). When you take me deep, I need all my will power not to fuck your mouth._

_Sometimes you smile. Or you smile with your eyes. Or you try to talk ~~but it’s hard to have the last word when your mouth is full of me, hmm?~~ You end up moaning and gasping and the sound vibrates against my shaft. Your breath is warm against my crotch and _

_Jesus._

_And when you look at me, it becomes too much. In your eyes, I see that it’s so much more than friction and delicious static. ~~It’s you and I~~_

_Usually at this point I come so hard my feet slam down on the mattress as if I’m landing a bloody aeroplane on the runway._

_To tell you the truth, it’s not just the fact that I’ve just been blown that gets me off so hard and fast, it’s also the power you have over me. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Having me helpless while I come all over your face. ~~I’d have to remove cum from your hair instead of sap.~~ _

_You know, I think it’s therapeutic writing about you giving me a blow job. ~~I’m surprised Ella never suggested it.~~ _

_In all seriousness, Sherlock, I’m just trying to show you just how much I don’t mind you touching me. But that’s nothing compared to how much I want to touch you, my precious twat._

_Yeah, I want to touch you. I want to see you lose control. I want you to feel just how much you are loved by me._

_I picture it in my mind all the time. Sometimes it’s just a fleeting image; Your face wearing an expression of ecstasy when I go down on you; Your curls damp on your forehead as you’re about to come; You saying my name in that incredible voice of yours._

_Here’s another little secret. If I can’t fall asleep, I make love to you in my head. I usually start by unwrapping you from your bathrobe like I’m unveiling a rare piece of art. Your clothes are mysteriously gone after I do that (it’s a fantasy, I skip steps, but don’t think I wouldn’t take pleasure in undressing you slowly either). Your pale skin is flushed and I bend down to kiss your lips._

_To tell you the truth, sometimes that’s all I need to come. Other times I let it go on a bit longer…_

_I slowly kiss you everywhere ~~as if I’m not desperate.~~ I run my tongue down the soft skin of your inner thigh. You shudder. I put my hands on you and my touch calms you. (I imagine that you don’t have much experience. I’m not sure. That’s another reason why I thought we should talk). I use my mouth and my fingers to make you come. My eyes are fixed on your face the entire time._

_Christ, I can only imagine how sexy that would be. You have no idea how much I want to see your face when you come. I’d give millions! (I’d need a loan, but it would be worth it)._

_But I screwed up, didn’t I? I could’ve maybe seen your expression for free? I’m sorry, Sherlock. I should’ve let you continue. Maybe we didn’t really need to talk. Maybe you were just more comfortable communicating that way._

_I’m worried about you tonight. Are you alone somewhere, thinking that you are too different to be loved? (when in fact you are ~~cherished~~ revered?) _

_People have been trying to keep us apart for years, haven’t they? Now the only hurdle in the way is our own bloody insecurities._

_You remember way back when the rumours about us being a couple were running rampant? Once, when I was by myself in Tesco, I overheard someone say, “Isn’t that John Watson? He’s not very good looking… a bit soft around the middle. Looks older. Sherlock Holmes could do a lot better.”_

_And for ~~months~~ years—even despite the fact that we weren’t even a couple—I thought they were right. I thought you could do better than me. I still think that sometimes._

_I’m not as brave as you think I am. Maybe I stopped you because I might’ve been trying to keep that little part of me safe. I don’t want you to break my heart again. Maybe I got scared. You know how you told me about the self-hypnotic trance you put yourself in to figure out Moriarty’s return? You said in your subconscious I blamed you for killing “my wife”? Well, in a way that was a bit true because when you died I grieved you like I had lost my spouse._

_I shouldn’t have stopped you. I regret it now._

_But the bottom line is, we are two people who have strong feelings for each other and I think they’re strong enough that we should go ahead and share everything in our lives; including our bodies. My daughter becomes your daughter. Your parents become mine. ~~Your brother is now my brother haha maybe not.~~  
We make our own little family unit. _

_~~If I polish off the rest of this bottle, I might even have the courage to ask you to marry me. Wouldn’t **that** give me peace of mind? If we were husbands you’d have to tell me everything and there’d be no more taking off by yourself. I’d be by your side always. ~~ _

_~~There would be no more keeping me in the dark to protect me. There would be no more dating for me and I would no longer keep things inside.~~ _

_~~Would you Sherlock? Would you marry me? (yeah, you’re right my lovely detective, the bottle is now empty). Will you marry me?~~ _

~~_Aren’t I the sappy drunk? I suppose we need to fix things before I propose?_ _(By the way, that’d go a lot quicker if you came out of hiding, Sherlock.)_~~

_I guess I’m getting ahead of myself here. There’s no need to rush things. Let’s not overthink this. I know you’ll come back soon. You always do._

_Maybe we could just go for a long walk. I’ll apologize, you’ll apologize. We’ll talk. And probably laugh a bit too. I might take your hand in mine while we walk. I’ve often felt like doing that._

_There’s no need to make a big deal out of this, Sherlock. Let’s just start with a walk, okay?_

_Goodnight, Sherlock._

_Yours always (and I mean that),  
John_

_P.S. If you don’t mind, I’m just going to go ahead and sleep in your bed. I miss you._

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to the lovely SwissMiss for the super quick beta and the helpful suggestions. :D

~~~***~~~

 

“John? John, wake up,” says Sherlock in his ear. “We have things to do.”

John opens his eyes, and sees Sherlock kneeling by the side of the bed. He’s looking at him with an expression of such earnest that it churns John’s heart to butter. It seems Sherlock is uncertain of John’s reaction after his latest disappearance. John wants to ask him where he’s been, but figures it doesn’t really matter now; he’s just extremely happy that the wanker is right in front of him, safe and sound. John just needs to mend things between them.

They stare at each other, unsure of how to start this conversation that needs to happen. 

“You’re back,” John says softly. _I’m so fucking happy to see you._

Sherlock smiles a tiny, slanted smile. “Your power of observation is astounding, John,” he says.

“I aim to impress.” _Jesus, John!?_

“Likewise…” Sherlock says.

“How are you?” _Please, know I care so much about you, Sherlock._

“I’m fine, good.” _Sorry I disappeared_ is plainly written on Sherlock’s face. “The battery on my phone was dead.” _I didn’t mean to worry you_ John interprets as well.

“I slept in your bed…” John starts and stops. He’s being so goddamn obvious.

Sherlock doesn’t even roll his eyes. “Yes, I was slowly working my way to that conclusion. Thank you for pointing it out,” he says, both teasing and hesitant at the same time.

They really are being too fucking prudent around each other, John thinks. It’s bloody ridiculous! It’s like they’ve reached the summit of misunderstandings and now they’re being extra careful to slalom around feelings, blame, and past hurts. 

John wants to explain how he ended up in Sherlock’s bed, but there’s so much that has happened in the past forty-eight hours, he’s not sure where to start. 

“Rosie?” John finally asks. 

“Still at my parents’ place. And don’t worry, they’re all having a grand time. My mother reported that Rosie has met other children at the park, and is quite enamoured with the concept of ‘playing’. I was hoping she wouldn’t go for that kind of thing.”

“I should go get her…”

“Not a chance. Mummy is bringing her to the flower show tomorrow.”

John sighs and drops back on the pillow. He closes his eyes. He’s not hungover, not really, but it’s just as well that Mrs Holmes wants to keep Rosie for a bit longer. It feels like he needs to work things out with Sherlock so he can get on with his bloody life. 

And, all this fake politeness is killing him. Christ, as he wrote in the letter, he and Sherlock are practically a couple, there’s no need for—

John’s heart suddenly does a double take as he remembers the letter. _Where_ the hell did he leave it? 

He crumpled it up and buried it in the bin, didn’t he? (Technically, there is more than one letter… but in John’s mind, they are all blended into one long drunken declaration).

Shit! Has Sherlock found it? 

Surely that’s the first thing he’d bloody mention if he’d read it, right? And it’s not as if Sherlock goes on a cleaning spree every Saturday morning… It’s probably still there with the five apple cores he tossed in there from the sofa last Wednesday. 

Sherlock coughs. “Are you ever going to get up? Why are you so lazy today?” he inquires.

John props himself up on the pillow. “I’m lazy?” John asks. This means Sherlock hasn’t found the letter. He doesn’t know John was up half the night pouring his heart out to him.

“Yes. And selfish. I’ve been waiting for hours for you to wake up.”

John shakes his head in disbelief and chuckles wearily. Christ. He’d put a good forty-eight hours on hold for Sherlock. “Oh, _I’ve_ kept you waiting, have I?”

Sherlock’s face turns an odd combination of soft and serious. “Yes,” Sherlock replies gently. _For years_ his eyes convey. He then stands up. “Are you ready to vacate my bed now?”

“Yes,” John needs to get Sherlock out of the flat before he finds the letter. “Can you run down to Speedy’s to get me a coffee while I shower?”

Sherlock smiles. “A frightfully lame plan,” he says. “You’re thinking that this will get me out of the flat so you can retrieve your plethora of drunken missives. You can’t trick _me_.”

John feels himself blush when he sees Sherlock suddenly holding up the crumpled letters in his left hand. 

_Of fucking course, he’s found them! What the hell was I thinking?_

Sherlock gives him an angelic smile. “For the sake of transparency, I did read them. They were all addressed to me after all.” 

John folds the blankets back and sits on the edge of the bed. “Christ,” he says, dropping his face in his hands. “I’m so embarrassed right now…”

“Yes, I would be too. Lots of spelling mistakes and run-on sentences.”

“Sherlock, it’s not funny.”

“It is a little bit funny. I’ve read them a few times. Your jokes were horrible, though.”

John finally looks up at Sherlock. Yeah, Sherlock’s mouth might be spewing off witty criticism, but his expression tells an entirely different story. In Sherlock’s face, John sees affection: no more than that—he’s pretty sure he sees love. There’s also a hint of mischief in his beautiful pistachio eyes (Fuck! Did he really tell Sherlock the story about the paint chip? Good Lord--no wonder the wanker is teasing him… )

But there is also hope in there. He has read that final letter. He knows how John feels. It seems odd that it’s out there—in the open—fantasy and all. 

Any remaining resentment over Sherlock’s disappearance evaporates. Suddenly, John giggles. He’s not sure why… probably something to do with the abrupt transition of going from repressing everything he’s ever felt for Sherlock for years to suddenly pouring it all out to him in an avalanche of drunken words. 

A bloody explicit avalanche at that. 

Christ, he even told Sherlock about his blow-job-in-his-chair fantasy. At the thought of the details he shared with Sherlock, he feels himself blushing again as if he’s got a low-grade fever. 

“If it’s any consolation, John, I liked the crux of draft number six.”

John takes a deep breath and lifts his chin. He doesn’t need alcohol to be brave, and besides, the shortest distance between two hearts is transparency (or so he’d been told by Grandma Watson… too bad he’d taken so long to remember that particular tidbit of wisdom). “I meant every word in there, Sherlock,” John says, looking into Sherlock’s eyes. “Every. Single. Word.”

Sherlock colours ever so slightly. “That’s hm, good. Very good. I—” Sherlock stops, blinks twice, and swallows. “Let’s go for a walk, then,” he says trying hard to sound casual. “Like you suggested in your letter.”

 

~~~***~~~

 

John jumps in the shower and accidently washes his hair twice because he’s so damn distracted trying to remember everything he wrote in that drunken letter… Jesus, he _proposed_ , didn’t he? Yes, yes he did. He asked Sherlock to marry him. 

_Good Lord._

Fuck, he did ramble on in there, but there’s nothing for it now. He reminds himself that it’s a good thing. He _did_ mean every word in there, even if the delivery wasn’t exactly what he had in mind. They really need to talk—sort this out once and for all. 

About thirty minutes later, after eating a quick breakfast prepared by Sherlock—toast with honey, eggs, and half a banana—they are ready to go. 

They leave the flat, turn right, and then a quick left and begin their pilgrimage to the holy land of ‘Couplehood.’ It might seem really odd to have a heart to heart conversation on the streets of London—but John thinks this is the right thing for them.

Besides, Sherlock is dead set on following the itinerary John proposed in the letter, as if their future together will be jinxed if things don’t go exactly in the order set out in the drunken declaration.

And sure enough, as soon as they turn the corner, Sherlock says, “I’m sorry, John.” 

“I’m sorry too.”

They don’t even need to specify what they are sorry for. 

They continue to walk with purpose, yet without a specific destination in mind. It is a beautiful spring day in late April. The leaves have blossomed on the trees and flowers are poking their heads out in flower boxes adorning the windows. It’s a stupid metaphor but things are blossoming between them as well. In fact, it feels like their relationship has cycled through the seasons a few times—with an extended stay in winter the two years Sherlock went away—and now they are finally ready for things to warm up. 

This is their last walk as friends. John can feel it in the air, as if the tingle of anticipation is mixed in with the oxygen they are breathing in. John thinks they should just let nature take its course. It all feels fine now. There is absolutely no need to discuss anything specific. They know they belong together.

They keep walking, taking random turns left and right. It doesn’t really matter where they’re going, as long as they are together. Internally, John laughs. He really doesn’t need to be consuming alcohol to be a sappy sod when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, right?

This is all they need. The city and each other (plus a regular dose of mysteries to keep their senses heightened).

Sherlock’s way was probably best after all. Just do it. Have sex. John’s made it worse by stopping and putting it under a microscope. Do they really need to look at it so closely? Christ, that’s a lot of pressure, isn’t? (Especially after writing down the details of his own fantasies… He’s an idiot.)

They both speak at the same time.

“Your approach was better,” starts John.

“About your letter…” begins Sherlock.

They pause. John signals to Sherlock to go ahead.

“John, I know you’ve reached the conclusion we don’t need to talk after all… but you were right before; we should. But not on the street. Come, follow me.”

After a quick ride on the underground, they end up at 24 Leinster Gardens, the decoy building façade where they confronted Mary years ago. Sherlock’s bolt-hole. Not exactly great memories for John, but it’s probably a wise choice for privacy and closure. 

Sherlock opens the door with a key that was hidden in a coat pocket. Since it is daytime, they can easily see the fake interior as there are wide beams of light that have snuck through the make-shift ceiling. John hears the soft humming of the city through the walls. In the hallway, they sink to the floor to sit next to each other.

Sherlock sighs and leans his back against the wall. “I keep forgetting—more apt—ignoring the fact that we haven’t actually talked. When I was in a trance, we conversed. It was all in my subconscious. I didn’t really—”

John realises that Sherlock is talking about the time he was unconscious on the plane when he was brought back from his aborted mission to Eastern Europe. 

John knows that Sherlock’s incredible mind functions at an almost supernatural level. Sherlock is able to gather vast amounts of micro-observations, and when he puts himself in a deep trance, his brain is able to rapidly make connections at an intuitive level. That’s how Sherlock is able to make deductions so quickly. And that’s also how he was able to piece together the parts of his past that had been tampered with. Truly an impressive genius-level feat! 

Though that being said, John sometimes has the feeling that Sherlock forgets John wasn’t privy to everything that happened in the realm of his subconscious.

“Maybe that’s part of the problem. You’re mixing up reality with what happened in your self-hypnosis trip thing,” suggests John.

Sherlock makes a face. “Just call it a trance or meditation.”

John frowns. “Sounded really trippy to me. And unsafe. I know some drugs were involved… ”

Sherlock sighs. “It’s over now,” he says waving a hand in dismissal. “The important thing is I solved the Moriarty problem.” He stops and then looks at John earnestly. “But in my mind you were there with me, and you saw some facets of me that weren’t so ‘awesome’or flattering…”

“You are your own worse enemy, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignores him. “You saw the awful, twisted game I used to play. I used people as if they were chess pieces, manipulating them to play the game. To _win_ the game…”

John moves his foot over Sherlock’s leg as if to anchor him down. “Sherlock, you endured a lot of shit when you were young, and this became your coping mechanism. You have to forgive yourself. You’ve made your peace with Sherrinford.”

Again, Sherlock ignores him and continues. “The Moriarty puzzle; I loved it, John. But it always popped up to derail me from you. It was a temptation I fought to resist. But what I feel for you is stronger, and using people is no longer a game.”

Maybe at some point John will be privy to the details infused in Sherlock’s psyche; but for now, he knows enough. He knows that Sherlock is a beautiful, sensitive soul. He knows Sherlock has gone to extreme measures to protect himself—not only because that’s what he has been taught to do—but because it was the only coping mechanism that helped young Sherlock live through abuse at the hands of a jealous sibling. 

Plus, Sherlock’s mind has been tempered with. His memories have been manipulated as part of some sick subtle game of mind control.

John wasn’t kidding in his letter when he said they both needed therapy. At this point, John feels it’s important that Sherlock knows he’s not the only one who’s got some ugly baggage tucked away in the past.

“I’m not perfect either, Sherlock. I’m stubborn and I get aggressive when I’m frustrated. I bypass normal fear sentiments—not because I don’t get scared—but because that’s what my father’s fist taught me. I have major trust issues and an overload of guilt over liking danger.”

Sherlock makes a funny face. “Don’t condemn the danger addiction… We wouldn’t be together if it weren’t for it. And by the way, it’s now your turn to be too hard on yourself.”

“Oh, I’ve got more crap to share—let me finish,” John says. “My recklessness in the war _endangered_ my fellow comrades. That’s why some of them hate me. And I wasn’t faithful. Mary—I should not have married her. I knew I was in love with you before I even knew she was a double agent. And just so you know, I‘ve never ever forgiven her for shooting you. Even if there was blackmail involved… she should’ve known you could outsmart Magnussen.”

“I didn’t outsmart him. I shot him.”

“See, that’s exactly my point. If Mary had come to us sooner than later, we would’ve had a better plan.” 

John perseveres. “What I mean is; I should’ve bloody cancelled the wedding even if I didn’t know whether you’d go there with me or not. I just loved you more than I loved her. Do you know what I did during my honeymoon? I texted you constantly. Every time she left the room, I got in touch with you. I sneaked into the bathroom to continue our conversations. I felt like shit, but I couldn’t help it.”

“Oddly enough, we’ve already had this conversation. My subconscious knew you felt guilty about that. But it was just texting, John.”

“Sherlock, I nearly kissed you when you were teaching me how to dance… ”

Sherlock lowers his eyes. “I know.”

“Would you have let me if Mrs. Hudson hadn’t interrupted?”

“I would’ve been helpless to stop you.”

A pleasant shiver travels up John’s neck, and for a brief second, John imagines how the story would’ve unfolded had they kissed then. But he knows there’s no use going there and wasting time on ‘should haves.’ Technically they haven’t even kissed yet and John really wants to get to that part. But there’s one thing he needs to clear up with Sherlock. 

John takes a deep breath. “Why did you run away?” 

Sherlock gives John a piercing look, and then answers. “I miscalculated just how much it would… ” He pauses, seemingly searching for the right words. “I knew it was a possible outcome—you pushing me away—but I didn’t realise how much it would hurt.”

“I _didn’t_ push you away,” John says automatically.

Sherlock shrugs. “Technically you did.” 

“It wasn’t meant to be a push, it was meant as a _‘just-hold-on-for-a-second- there’…_ ”

“You overestimated my experience in interpreting the nuances.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. But you could’ve talked about it.”

“At the time I thought I was _communicating_ with you clearly.”

Maybe Sherlock is right: he had been talking to John, hadn’t he? First, Sherlock had kissed John’s fingers, asking: _Do you mind this?_ He’d then placed John’s hand on his rapidly beating heart: _This is how I feel about you._ Sherlock had then disappeared under John’s jumper to get some answers of his own: _Do I make your heart race too?_

Sherlock must’ve thought there was a herd of stallions galloping in there. He’d then licked John’s nipple and John had shivered in response. 

_Oh. Christ._

Sherlock had been communicating. He’d found the confirmation he was looking for and had proceeded to the next step: John’s damn trousers.

And John had _stopped_ him. 

He’s a bloody idiot. Plain and simple. 

“Sherlock… I—God, I’ve been blind in so many ways, so many times.” John pauses and takes a deep breath before finishing. “But it’s important that you know that I—” He stops and swallows. “I’m afraid I’m about to get overly sentimental.”

“If you must,” Sherlock says in a tone that is meant to sound like it’s a great imposition on his time but fails miserably. Sherlock is practically beaming at the prospect of John sharing his feelings.

John takes Sherlock’s elegant hand in his and kisses it. “You’re a great pain in the arse… but I want you to know that I love you more than life itself.” 

They smile at each other goofily for a moment. John feels his heart swell. Really, after all this time, it’s incredible that they are together this way and that everything is out in the open. He shared so much in that fucking love letter. 

John knows Sherlock loves him too, and he also knows it’s therapeutic to say it out loud. 

John nudges him gently. “Your turn to say it.”

“You are a great pain in the arse...”

John laughs. “That is _not_ what I meant—” 

“Fine then. My love for you is a great ‘pain in the arse’. It is both debilitating and relentless. But with you, I’m a better version of myself.”

Sherlock’s words take John’s breath away. They’ve loved each other in parallel for so long. Suddenly, John can’t wait anymore, and he half climbs on top of Sherlock and kisses his precious lips. They taste like caramelised sugar and for some reason—perhaps because it’s _so_ Sherlock—it makes John chuckle into the kiss. “You taste very sweet,” John says as an explanation for his laugh. “I like it.” 

“I certainly hope so. I put a lot of sugar in my hot drinks.”

Then, they kiss and kiss until John’s lips are numb and caramelised too. After a while—between bouts of kissing—they share the full extent of their feelings and experiences.

John finds out that Sherlock is not a virgin like Mycroft implied that time. But still, he admits that he doesn’t have much experience. John also learns the sad details of Sherlock’s break up with Victor Trevor and his ensuing descent into drug use.

John tries to share some intimate details about his past relationships, but—much to their amusement—it seems Sherlock has deduced everything already. 

Finally, John stands. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, extending a hand to Sherlock. 

“Please,” Sherlock replies, reaching for John’s hand.

 

***

 

They walk home extremely fast. Each footstep reverberating shared declarations, pumping blood, and clearing the heart of debris.

At the front door of 221B, they pause for a moment before going in. The wind picks up and gives Sherlock a sexily disheveled look. John stares at his rosebud lips and Sherlock looks down at his feet. He’s probably nervous if he still feels like John rejected his advances last time. It’s okay. They don’t need to rush things. _All in good time._

“John, I—” Sherlock looks up and points to the door. “I have coordinated the absence of Mrs Hudson for the rest of the day. I have procured proper safe sex paraphernalia if you feel it’s necessary, though I have also provided clean bills of health for the both of us. I am hoping you are not hungry or do not need tea. I would like to know… what it feels like to be with you.”

_Right._

“Sherlock, I feel the same way. And I want—”

Sherlock twists the door handle and pushes the door open. “Okay, lovely, enough talking now.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice.”

Sherlock walks in, removes his coat, and puts it on the hook. His eyes are on John the entire time. They stare at each other quietly for what seems like a long time before finally heading upstairs.

Once in the flat, Sherlock walks quickly to the bookshelf, seemingly looking for something. “I have something to show you,” he says.

“What happened to enough talking?”

He ignores John and produces a yellow folder labeled ‘John H.Watson.’ He hands it over to John, his cheeks reddening slightly. “In your letter you shared that you sometimes had doubts about your physical attributes. I know it’s not important, but just the same, I wanted to show you this.”

John opens the envelope, and pulls out a replica of the famous ‘Vitruvian Man’ (but the face is replaced with John’s face). Something odd and intense squeezes John’s throat at the thought of Sherlock actually taking the time to find a photo of him with the right facial dimensions and pasting it onto the prototype of Da Vinci’s work.

Sherlock takes back the replica and returns it to the envelope. He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure if people usually say these kinds of things out loud, but I find you incredibly handsome, John. I like your smiles, I like your hair, I’m attracted to your body. You’re gorgeous and compact. There’s something about you that says ‘I don’t waste space.’ _You_ are my Vitruvian man and I could not do better than you.”

John holds his breath. It’s not what he really meant in the letter. He meant that Sherlock was so goddamn attractive, he could have anyone—but something in Sherlock’s honest tone, the catch in his voice, the intense way he’s looking at him—moves John to the core.

John looks down at his feet, and for some reason, complex emotions rise to the surface as he remembers past insecurities of his early adolescence; teenage John seeing all his friends grow tall in a burst of pubescence; teenage girls a foot taller than him. Of course, he’d learned soon enough that it all ceased to matter once it became clear that attitude was really the driving force determining how attractive a body was. 

Still, John wishes he could send a message back in time to tell his young self not to worry: _John, one day, you’re going to meet the most amazing human being on the planet, and that incredible man will become your best friend, your confidant, your hero, your lifesaver, and… your lover._ He’d also tell young John, _“By the way, yes, those are flutters of attractions you have for Billy; you’re bisexual, don’t worry about it.”_

Finally, John collects himself and looks at Sherlock. It’s ridiculous that they should be talking about his ‘looks’ of all things. Their connection has always been deeper, more meaningful, than physical attributes and gender. 

But, here’s the thing; he couldn’t deny the physical attraction between them. It was there. It was powerful. It was sizzling just below the surface all along. John has no idea how he resisted it for so long.

He takes a few steps forward and hooks a finger in Sherlock’s trousers at the waist before briskly pulling him close to his chest. “ _You_ could have anyone. You’re fucking hot,” he says. 

“You find me handsome,” says Sherlock.

“Yes. Me and half the planet.”

“Only you matter to me.”

“Lucky me, then,” John says. “Is it enough talking now?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

 

~~~***~~

 

They undress by the foot of Sherlock’s bed. Their eyes are on each other the entire time. There is a hint of nervous excitement, and also a bit of amusement as John trips over his shoe while taking off his jeans. 

John smiles and pulls down the covers and they both climb in. On their sides, they look at each other. Sherlock is beautiful, like a mystical creature that has descended upon the earth and landed in John’s life. John doesn’t know where all these fluffy comparisons are coming from… it’s just something so powerful about Sherlock’s personality and corporality that makes John into a fucking poetic lovesick moron. 

Suddenly, they are in each other’s arms hugging tightly, like they are trying to express years of love in just one embrace. Naked, they just hold on to each other. 

And it’s then, while holding him tight, that John recognises the vast loneliness in Sherlock. It’s evident in the way he keeps swallowing and the way his body shivers ever so slightly. It’s as if a lifetime of solitude is trembling through Sherlock’s frame. 

It touches something deep and fierce in John. “You’ve got me Sherlock,” he says, pulling him even closer, tighter, to accentuate his words. “You’ll never be alone again.”

A few precious moments go by, and Sherlock’s trembling ceases. A stir of feelings, both powerful and tender fills John’s heart. He pulls slightly away from Sherlock in order to get a good look at him. _He’s stunningly beautiful._

John wants to capture this moment forever so he continues to stare at Sherlock. He’s never imagined anything so powerful. He concludes that he’s never truly been in love before for how else can he explain how he wants _everything_ for Sherlock. How he wants to crawl in to every single scar and fill it with love instead of hurt. 

“Are you okay, John? You don’t have to… ” Sherlock says, his voice trailing off, unsure as to why John has stopped this time.

It’s stupid, bloody embarrassing, but John finds himself moved to the point that his vision is blurred. He swallows. He should not have stopped Sherlock a few days ago. Christ! The beautiful idiot is still wondering if John is afraid to _touch_ him.

“I love touching you,” John manages to choke out. “I was just pausing to admire you. You’re really beautiful. I love you. Just relax now, okay. Just let it happen.”

John moves his hands down Sherlock’s back, cups his buttocks, pulls him closer to him, and kisses Sherlock all over. John then licks his fingers until they are wet and takes a hold of Sherlock’s cock, all the while maintaining eye contact with him. 

“John?” he says, his eyelashes trembling slightly.

“Hmm?”

“I can’t think.”

“That’s rather the point,” John says softly as he speeds up the movement of his hand on Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock’s moans are deep and desperate and delicious. It’s the most edible sound John’s ever heard. He bends down to savour them as they escape Sherlock’s mouth over and over again. 

Soon, it becomes too much for Sherlock. He tips his head back and his eyelids flutter as if the orgasm pulsing through his body is touching his very soul.

John watches, his heart suddenly seeming too big for his chest. _Priceless. Fucking priceless._

John swallows and pulls a spent Sherlock in closer. He is warm, flushed pink, and pliable against him. When Sherlock opens his eyes again he is beaming, and John feels like he is holding a sunset in his arms. 

Sherlock stirs and moves his bare foot the length of John’s calf. “I want to make you feel good too.”

“Oh, I feel good.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, wrapping a hand around John’s erection.

Again, they explore each other with kisses and Sherlock is not shy at all. Sherlock touches him in a myriad of ways asking softly, “Like this?, like this?” as his lips and hands waltz down John’s body. 

John whispers, “Yes, like that, yes…”

John’s senses are filtered down to delicious tingling and pulsing as Sherlock alternates between using his hand and his mouth on John’s cock. He hears Sherlock whisper things like _‘Let me taste you’, ‘You are incredible like this—I knew it’, ‘I love you John Watson’._

This is better than any fantasy. He’d never quite imagined just how reverently and confidently he could be touched by Sherlock Holmes. 

And of course, the rhythm of Sherlock’s hand and the feel of Sherlock’s lips nibbling at the crook of his neck soon become too potent, and John comes, warm and hard, at the base of Sherlock’s fist. 

They hold each other, enveloped by an odd sense of peace, soft and gentle like rain on the sea. 

After a while, John thinks that maybe Sherlock has fallen asleep, but suddenly he feels him shift and bury his face in John’s neck.

“In your letter… You asked me for forever,” says Sherlock.

Forever? Ah. Yes. He proposed to Sherlock. “I did, didn’t I?” 

“You did,” says Sherlock solemnly.

John knows Sherlock is not too fond of the idea of marriage in general. And it’s not as if they need to make it official; they’ve been a couple—with or without sex—for such a long time anyway. “Well, I know you don’t believe in that stuff. How did you put it—”

Sherlock interrupts. “Did you mean it though?”

“Yeah, yeah I meant it. I was drunk but everything in there—“

Sherlock lifts his head. “I accept.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I said yes. I accept your proposal.”

“You’ve just agreed to marry me?” 

“Lord God, you are dense,” says Sherlock. “Are you always like this after orgasm? No wonder all your girlfriends always--”

John play punches him on the arm. “Shut up,” he says.

“No,” says Sherlock. “You love it when I talk.”

John smiles. “Yeah, sometimes, I do.”

“Often,” corrects Sherlock.

“Okay, oftentimes,” concedes John. “So, you want to get married?”

“Immensely.”

Christ, John thinks, he’d have written a letter to Sherlock while intoxicated a long time ago if he’d known it would ensure having Sherlock by his side forever. 

Though, come to think of it, it’s a bit sad that he proposed in a _letter_ while _intoxicated._ “That was a rather bad marriage proposal on my part, Sherlock.” 

“Hmm, you’ve struggled with those in the past.”

John gives him a look, and Sherlock smiles innocently.

John takes Sherlock’s hand. “I didn’t mean to scribble a marriage proposal on a piece of paper.”

“And scratch it out afterwards,” adds Sherlock. “ A bit messy…”

“Seriously, you deserve more… I mean—er, what I mean to say is—I love you _so_ fucking much. I want to entire world to know.” John cradles Sherlock’s face with both hands and kisses him on the forehead. “I would’ve done one of those clever proposal thing on YouTube. It would’ve gone viral.”

There’s a look of glee on Sherlock’s face—it’s as if he’s picturing their Twitter accounts breaking the internet or something. “Yes, probably,” Sherlock says. But then his face sobers up. “However, I don’t want viral. I want eternal.”

It’s a powerful statement and John takes a moment to let it sink in. Sherlock wants eternal. Sherlock wants to get married and be with him forever. 

It’s odd, John reflects, how opening up—sharing how he feels about Sherlock, accepting the risk of being broken-hearted—is what has lead to them finally committing to each other. 

Really, he’s so glad he wrote that letter…. So glad Sherlock found it.

Sherlock performs an acrobatic roll and lands on top of John. His face is very close to John’s, and his smile crinkles his eyes attractively. “I’m curious,” says Sherlock. “Has the ‘pistachio sorbet’ paint chip in your second drawer really been there for three years because it reminded you of my eye colour?” 

Then again… John _might_ regret writing that letter from time to time if Sherlock keeps bringing up the embarrassing parts. “Yes,” he admits, his cheeks warming up a bit. 

“Fascinating,” Sherlock says with a small, satisfied smile. He kisses John on the tip of his nose. “But just one more question… Do you seriously think you’re doing your part for the environment by recycling your fantasies?” Sherlock asks with a mischievous tone.

John looks up to the ceiling. “Jesus, you’re going to tease me about that letter until the day I die, aren’t you?”

“And in the afterlife.”

 _Good_ John thinks. Afterlife with Sherlock sounds like fun (though not entirely restful) but, honestly, he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

 

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader, I hope you enjoyed this post-S4 story. Thanks for reading and commenting. :D

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I fully intend to re-write and improve this story in the next few days... I just had to post it as is in order to meet the 24 hour deadline. :D Hope you enjoyed it even if it still needs ~~a bit~~ a lot of polishing. ;D
> 
> ETA: I decided to delete the ending and add another chapter instead. Stay tuned, I'll post the second chapter at some point.


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